Piledriver Waltz
by andthenshesaid
Summary: In which Italy leaves, Germany's world falls apart, Austria shows up, and Germany tries to figure out the facts. GermanyAustria.


**Piledriver Waltz**

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(In Which Italy Leaves, Germany's World Falls Apart, Austria Shows Up, And Germany Tries To Figure Out The Facts)

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_you look like you've been for breakfast at the heartbreak hotel  
>and sat in the back booth by the pamphlets and literature on how to lose<br>your waitress was miserable and so was your food_

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Italy leaves in a whirlwind of soft smiles and golden eyes and doesn't leave behind anything except the faint smell of love and warmth on Germany's bed and a stain from one of his many pasta making adventures that Germany never managed to get out of the wall.

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Germany's world falls apart, slowly, like a snake shedding its skin – and in this metaphor, he is the snake and the skin, because he is both sneaky and worthless and awful, but he is also dead and useless – and painfully, like someone has stabbed him and twisted the knife, _hard_ – he supposes in that metaphor the person with the knife would be Italy, but Germany can't picture his perfect-annoying-beautiful-awful-Italy doing something like that, so he doesn't.

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At some point in the week and a half he spends staring a stain on the kitchen wall and making lists, Austria moves in.

Germany remembers because Austria was holding three suitcases – all from the same matching set, simple leather and tiny stitching and a neat monogram – and a case that he _really _hopes doesn't contain a piano and he's got a resigned look on his face.

He walks into their – _his, only his now_ – house and shoves his things at Germany and goes at once to inspect the status of his underwear and dust off his piano, complaining all the while.

It makes him feel a little bit whole on the inside, like Austria is a little bit of tape that someone haphazardly stuck to that thing inside his chest that is cracking apart.

The case turns out to be his sewing kit.

Germany almost smiles.

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The thing is –

His hair reminds him of Italy's.

(He's not actually sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing, because it is _Italy_ and that sentence right there probably summarizes all of his problems in life.)

And actually, now that he thinks about it, it should probably be "Italy's hair reminded him of Austria" and not the other way around, but for so long Germany's entire world had been centered around that stupid, bumbling, too loud, annoying, idiotic Italian who forgot to wear pants and ate too much pasta and had an annoying voice –

(By that, he very obviously means the beautiful, amazing, wonderful Italian who made his world light up so bright it blinded him.)

The point of this entire long, rambling group of sentences is, of course, that looking at Austria hurts his heart because sometimes in the right light it can turn chestnut and the hair that sticks out can look a little bit looser, and when he smiles it can _almost_ light up a room…

Not all the time. All the time would probably make Germany's heart crack so much, the only thing left would be a finely powdered black dust that would just get swept under a rug or behind the couch or something. No, it's just, maybe when he first wakes up and hasn't brushed it yet or when he's standing just right in front of that big picture window that was Italy's idea in the first place or when Germany enters a room and Austria is facing the wrong way and he blinks his eyes really fast…

It's almost like Italy never left.

Except he _did _leave, and Germany _is_ alone and Austria _is _here, so he doesn't know why he keeps trying to change the facts like that.

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And these –

These are the facts.

(He writes them down on paper, solid in black ink and block letters because that helps him keep them in order and not run rampant around their – _his_ – house.)

1) Germany has blonde hair.

2) Italy left.

3) If Austria left too, Germany would be completely alone.

4) Except Prussia.

5) But Germany hasn't actually seen his brother for about two weeks, about a week after Italy left, so he doesn't know how that is working out.

6) He is trying not to care about this aloneness, because he deserves it.

7) That last one was more like a lie mixed with an opinion mixed with a wish.

8) This list is getting pointless.

9) Lists usually make him feel better.

10) This one isn't.

11) Its actually making him feel rather sad and twisty inside.

Germany crumples the paper and throws it into a waste basket already overflowing with crumpled pieces of paper, all of them with lists written on them in black ink and block letters.

None of them made him feel better.

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He wanders into the room, the one that has the piano, which he and Italy never really went into to, not even a little bit.

Austria likes it there.

And Austria sits and plays out some melody that Germany doesn't recognize and he doesn't bring up Beethoven or Italy or how Germany has gone a horrible job of taking care of his house, but he just sits and plays and Germany stands behind him and watches his fingers like his life depends on it.

Part of this feels familiar, like maybe he peeked through a door and watched two people do this exact same thing, only a very, _very_ long time ago.

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He learns that Italy is living with Japan right now, and he nearly crushes a pencil.

But he supposes it works, because he is in love with Italy and Italy loves Japan and Japan loves England and England loves America and America loves Romano or Vietnam or Russia or Lithuania or someone entirely new this week and –

Somehow he could make it come full circle, in a neat piece of paper with black ink and block letters and a flow chart.

(Romano would connect to Spain and maybe loop back around to Italy, and Vietnam would probably go to Australia or maybe just herself and he'd have to draw arrows from Russia to almost everyone and he supposes at least Lithuania's and Poland's could be neat and stick-straight, and those were always his favorite types of lines, but he would still have to factor in Belarus and possibly Latvia too, so the lines would just get twisted up again.)

He doesn't really feel like it though, so he spends a few more hours staring at that damn stain on the wall and listening to Austria play something that might be Chopin.

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So, these are more facts –

(Of course written down in black ink and block letters, though Austria rearranged his desk and it had taken him a good 10 minutes to try and find it and it had reminded him of when Italy had decided to start a war between the pens, pencils, and charcoal vs. the colored writing utensils and –

That story is not important at all, because it's about Italy and Italy –)

1) Italy is with Japan right now.

2) Japan is kinder than Germany.

3) Japan is prettier than Germany.

4) Japan eats things like pasta and ramen and rice balls shaped like people's face.

5) Germany does not eat any of those things.

6) Except pasta, when Italy makes it.

7) That word should be _made_, because Italy is gone.

8) Germany does not really know the difference between facts and opinions.

He crumples up that list too, and the pile in the waste basket keeps on growing.

He should probably buy another one of those.

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Austria is stitching his underwear again –

The patches are bright against the white.

Germany looks up from his list – this one, though still written in black ink and block letters, is about what he needs to pick up from the store, and he has a note at the bottom to not pick up pasta, because he keeps on forgetting when he's there and he always grabs about six boxes, because he's always imagining what Italy's face will look like when he surprises him and then he goes home to his house, where he is (mostly) alone and just ends up cracking his heart a bit more – and Austria looks up from his needle and thread.

"Do you need something?"

And then, rather clumsily, and more than a lot stupidly, he leans across his list and the bundle of cloth in Austria's lap and presses his lips to his.

5 seconds later, it's over, and Germany stumbles away to stare at the stain and the two dozen boxes of pasta sitting in his cabinet.

Austria sits in his chair, a stunned look in his violet eyes.

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Maybe he should drink more.

He remembers Prussia drinking himself into some kind of stupor, nearly every time the words "Hungary," "Austria," or "marriage" were brought up. He remembers after Old Fritz died and his brother had literally never left his room except to get more beer.

Somewhere between his sixth beer and his third shot, he realized that imitating Prussia was forever and always the stupidest thing he could ever do.

Somewhere between his eleventh beer and his seventh shot, but before he tried mixing vodka and whiskey and beer and orange juice together to see what they tasted like, he threw a bottle of bleach at the wall in the general area of where he thought the stain was.

Somewhere after his ninth shot and third glass of vodka-whiskey-beer-juice, but before the world started _completely_ doing hula-hoops around his brain, he found Austria playing the piano, and decided to stick his tongue down the other mans throat.

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Not surprisingly, he wakes up with his head pounding.

Surprisingly, he is in his own bed and there is a glass of water and some aspirin on his bedside table and when he manages to get the strength to stumble like a zombie into the kitchen, Austria is wearing a pink and yellow apron and cleaning up the mess he made with the bleach.

Germany wonders what the hell he ever did to deserve people like this.

(People like Italy, too, because he always wondered that, and apparently he was right, because Italy _left._)

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These are (even more) facts.

The stupid black ink and block letters haven't made him feel better yet. He doesn't know why he thought they would.

1) He has kissed Austria two times now.

2) But really only one, because the first didn't count.

3) A five second long kiss on the lips could count as saying hello in some countries.

4) Germany doesn't know which ones.

5) He doesn't feel like finding out.

6) It's probably in France. Or maybe Italy.

7) He doesn't want to think about Italy.

8) He still does.

9) All the time.

10) There is a dog barking somewhere.

11) Austria is yelling at it.

12) He should go deal with that.

And after that –

It's just another wrinkled piece of paper in the wastebasket

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That night he has a dream about a little blonde boy and a girl in a green dress.

Somewhere along the way, a boy who plays the piano like some kind of god makes an entrance, but he's not what the story is about.

Germany wakes up in a cold sweat for no reason whatsoever, and Austria, as though sensing some kind of disturbance in the perfect household he's trying to create wanders in, eyes half closed with sleep, wearing perfectly pressed pajamas – including the pants – and Germany throws himself at him, tangling their legs together and pressing the other man up against a wall, lips bruising against each other and tongues twisting around in each other's mouth –

Somehow they end up on a bed and Germany wakes up – again – this time calm and sated and that lasts all of three seconds until he realizes exactly who is sleeping next to him.

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It is at that point that Germany goes into his study to make another list.

Except, he's sitting at the table, black ink pen in hand, and he just can't think.

Because, really, what should he make a list about – _Reasons Germany's Life Sucks, People Who I Don't Deserve, How To Ruin Relationships, Why Italy Is Perfect, Why Austria Is _–

He doesn't really know what Austria is, so that's a stupid idea.

Instead of that, he goes to stare at the stain on the wall again. The stain is still there, just a little faded by all that bleach.

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"You need to get your life together, bro."

He doesn't know exactly how long he had been sitting there, but Prussia had wandered in – there was a maple syrup stain on his t-shirt and a smirk on his face and he has a black eye, but it was nice to know his older brother wasn't dead.

"I thought that was what I was doing."

"Well. You're shit at it. Just because Italy left –"

Some kind of groan-whine claws its way out of Germany's throat right then, and Prussia changes tracks.

"Look, West. Your study is filled with crumpled bits of paper, half of your kitchen reeks of bleach, you spend the majority of the time staring at a stain, you haven't actually done work in about two weeks, there are 3 dozen boxes of pasta in the cabinet over there, and Austria is asleep in your bed."

When it's actually all put together like that, it actually sounds pretty horrible.

"The pieces of paper are lists." Is the only thing is brain can possible think of to say.

"I know. I read them." Prussia takes a deep breath. "I think you might be going insane."

Germany's head falls down onto the table, and Prussia leaves the room.

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Austria is not Italy and Germany still loves Italy (he thinks) and Germany is Germany, and sometimes Austria sews patches into Germany's underwear, and this is why he likes lists, because without them all the facts get all twisted up.

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After Prussia leaves, Germany slips back into bed with Austria – who is still snoozing, glasses placed neatly on the bedside table – and he is still Germany and Austria is still Austria and Italy is still Italy, and somewhere on the other side of the world America is still America –

Germany can't even begin to rewrite the past, even if he spins it out of facts and perfectly shaped block letters in black ink –

But he could (maybe) start his own new beginning.

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**I like GermanyAustria. Occasionally more than GermanyItaly, just because it's so much more entertaining for me. Also Italy is insanely difficult to write, hence him not appearing in this story except in the form of a stain. **

**Reviews/Thoughts/Rambles/etc are generally appreciated. Favorites without reviews kind of aren't. **


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